Morning light spills through the glass wall, spreading across the polished marble in slow, golden rivers. The glass itself is still streaked with tears—rain from the night before, now mingled with the heavy dew that clings to everything, refusing to let go.
Outside, the world is soft and blurred, waking slowly, reluctantly, as if it too has been caught in a dream it doesn't want to leave.
I stir beneath the warmth of the covers, my body still half-drowned in sleep, my face pressing deeper into the pillow as if I could burrow into the comfort and never leave. The sunlight finds my skin anyway—warm, patient, insistent—and a smile touches my lips without my permission.
It's not a conscious thing.
It just happens.
A soft curve of the mouth, unguarded, unthinking—the kind of smile that belongs to a version of myself I don't always recognize.
My hand drifts across the sheets, searching for him beside me.
The space is empty.
Cold.
